We careened through streets, shrouded in darkness, packed into a grubby ersatz-Fiat 128, a Soviet-era knockoff. I was compressed, folded, and spindled into the back seat, a human shock absorber, a Dell Optiplex cradled in my arms. With only me between the PC’s steel case and [...]]]> A Thanksgiving Tale from the Wild Wild East

We careened through streets, shrouded in darkness, packed into a grubby ersatz-Fiat 128, a Soviet-era knockoff. I was compressed, folded, and spindled into the back seat, a human shock absorber, a Dell Optiplex cradled in my arms. With only me between the PC’s steel case and the car’s steel struts, I felt every bump and grind of the ancient city’s streets. I was the car’s only functioning shock absorber. Noticing that it was past midnight, I thought: “Hey, it’s Thanksgiving.”

As we zoomed around yet another roundabout, my friend Tamás shouted over the engine noise: “This is ‘Hero’s Square. You can see the statues of the seven Magyar chieftains who led the Hungarians into the Carpathian basin. You remember, Saint Stephen — he’s there. See.” He gestured with his right hand, his ubiquitous cigarette smoldering in the other. He was a hell of a driver, Tamás. One hand always on the wheel, another manhandling the stick shift, ratcheting through the gears, clutch be damned; another Bogarting a constant cigarette, and another hand to spare, artfully used to point out landmarks and other points of interest along the way.

I struggled to see out of the side window, smudged and clouded with urban fallout and the night’s reflections. I could see shadows, light and dark, vague objects lit by the cold calculating stare of mercury lights. “Oh, yeah,” I said. “I’ll have to come back here sometime during the day.” “Yes,” said Tamás. It’s a beautiful city.” With those words, he lit another cigarette and whipped the car to the right, sliding me away from the window. Like a square, steel security blanket, I cradled the PC. We dove down, down into the dark, diving driving deep into the Budapest night. I was glad he knew where he was going, or at least he seemed to know. I wasn’t going to question. If this worked, it would be he who had saved the day; saved the week, saved my ass — assuming it, and I, survived the ride.

The week had been one unmitigated disaster after another. It was one of those times where just about everything went wrong. The giant rabbit, a bunny the size of a German Shepherd, had shaken my essential belief in my on sanity. The trip had turned all too Kafkaesque, despite the fact I was in Budapest, not Prague, and Nietzsche was tumbling through my forebrain. “That which does not kill us, makes us stronger,” I muttered to myself, “especially giant rabbits.” But I am getting ahead of myself.

The story begins the week before. Plans were afoot, and I needed to quickly outfit what was to be our new office in Budapest. Tamás was moving from Prague to Budapest, others were moving from Prague to London, and still others were relocating back to the States. The Prague office was to be closed. Budapest needed to be up and running first and fast and furious. With the others, I had some time to spare and a moving company to help.

Taking it in stride, I laid out simple plans that involved donating all the existing equipment in Prague, and starting fresh in the various new locations. That meant shipping new equipment to Budapest, post haste, and that meant DHL. This was a few years ago, before accession into the EU. If you wanted to get stuff into the wild, wild east, DHL was your Jedi Knight. Try to do it yourself, and you’d be tied up in paperwork for a month, and end up paying double in taxes and quadruple in baksheesh and baklava. If I had gone that route, winter would be here, and I’d be wearing a balaclava.

My plan was simple. Ship a new PC via DHL to Budapest. Order a new MFC printer from a local vendor. Arrange for all the necessary connections for phone, fax, and internet. Time everything, just so. Arrive after the PC had cleared customs. Carry all the other bits and pieces. Leave a weekend as buffer, just to be safe. Take a day and purchase the other things I might need (like a fax machine). Spend a few days in Budapest assembling, training, eating cakes, and drinking coffee. When done, zip up to Prague, tie up loose ends there, and make it home by Thanksgiving — a simple plan that adhered to the KISS axiom.

It started to go wrong when the PC went MIA, supposedly somewhere between Ohio and Budapest. The timing of this news couldn’t have been worse. It broke while I was snoozing on a plane somewhere over the Atlantic. “They’ve lost the shipment,” said the message in my Blackberry. Bleary-eyed and stiff from the flight, I had to read the message twice as I pounded my second espresso in Schiphol Airport. “Huh,” I muttered. “DHL lost it in mid-flight?

I could of understood it if it had been routed through Amsterdam. Then I could blame it on some chocolate-crazed Dutchman or a ring of international PC thieves, trading computers for aged Gouda. But this had been a direct flight. It got on in Ohio and never got off. I felt like Jodie Foster. How can a PC simply disappear in mid-flight from a DHL plane? Its fate remains a mystery. I figure it’s somewhere embedded in a cow pasture, as it must have fallen out of the door of the plane as it banked to the left over Ohio; probably surprised a few cows, no doubt. Watch out Ohio — falling PCs! Cowdude, you’re getting a Dell!

I was committed. It was too late to turn around; too late to do much of anything. I caught my connection to Budapest with a mind towards taking solace at the hotel’s all-you-can-eat cake bar. Upon arriving, strengthened by a Sachertorte, sugar and chocolate coursing through my veins, I hatched an alternate plan.

I was not to be outfoxed by the cows, or the Dutch. Quick as a wink, with a call back to the States, my staff had a second PC out the door and onto a DHL truck. I figured if we got all our ducks in a row, I’d only lose two days. I could hang out at Café Gerbeaud, pretending to be an intellectual, eating cake and drinking coffee. Not a problem. I am especially fond of Hungarian cakes and tortes, and other pastries. I’d just have to dig up a tattered copy of Proust to complete the image. Besides, there was Tokaji to try. (I discovered I did not like it — and also learned not to say that out loud to the waiter’s face and still expect any sort of service.)

I spent the days wisely, lining up the other ducks, setting up printers, NAT routers, and phones. I even had the immensely ironic pleasure, comrades, of buying a Hungarian fax machine at the largest shopping mall in downtown Budapest. The mall is located in plaza named for Karl Marx. The machine’s instructions were in Hungarian — a lovely language with absolutely no relation to any of the Indo-European languages. Rather it is Ugric, perhaps related to Finnish, perhaps not, and thought to have originated from Siberia, one, two, or three million years ago. I was lucky. There were pictures.

Everything was ready. Then the bureaucracy took hold, like a rat terrier, and refused to let go. The paperwork accompanying the PC was incorrect. We were sub-leasing. We weren’t registered in Hungary. We didn’t exist. It was surreal. I felt unreal. According to the Hungarian authorities, I did not exist. You can’t deliver a PC to a non-existent organization, said DHL. “You don’t exist.”

Easily rectified, I thought, my sense of identity barely dented, I’ll just have new paperwork faxed over. But time was against me. First, it was now Friday. Second, there’s six hours difference between Michigan and Budapest. I had to wait for my office to wake up and get to work. By then it would be 3:00 PM in Budapest. Of course, the customs office closes at 3:00. They wouldn’t get the new paperwork until Monday. Assuming it was all in order, the earliest I could get the PC from DHL would be Monday morning. I headed back to the all-you-can-eat cake bar where I considered supplementing my diet of Dobos torte with a bottle of absinth.

Bright and early Monday morning, I was on the phone to DHL. “Yes,” they said. “The PC is here.” “No,” they said, “It would not be delivered today.”

Working reverse banker’s hours, the customs inspector didn’t start work until 4:00 PM. I thought this fact particularly strange, since the customs office closed at 3:00 PM. Logic aside, DHL assured me that the inspector would look at the paperwork that afternoon, and IF it was all in order, the PC would be delivered the following day, Tuesday.

“There’s a certain perverse logic to it all,” I thought to myself. Customs closes at 3:00 and the inspector starts work at 4:00… This meant that, no matter what you did, who you paid off; no matter how pious and righteous your life; there was no way to get something through customs in a day. I accepted my fate and waited another day. My schedule was already shot to Shineola. I was supposed to have been to Prague by now, and be headed home by Wednesday. I was now, officially, a day late and a Forint short. I celebrated with a plate of goulash and a piece of Rigó Jancsi.

Bright and drearily Tuesday morning, I was on the phone to DHL. “Yes,” they said. “The PC is here.” “No,” they said, “it would not be delivered today.”

The paperwork was not correct. The people from whom we were subleasing also didn’t exist. We couldn’t ship something to them either. “You can’t deliver a PC to a non-existent organization,” says DHL. Tamás, in his quiet wisdom, spoke up. “Why not have it shipped to me?” he said. “I exist.” Not in the mood for epistemological arguments, despite the temptation, I agreed and new paperwork was put in process.

Back to the future we went, waiting until 3:00 to have a new commercial invoice faxed to DHL from the States; back to the café for coffee and cake.

Not-so-bright and early Wednesday morning, I was on the phone to DHL. “Yes,” they said. “The PC is here.” “No,” they said, “it would not be delivered today.”

There were taxes to be paid. Since we had shipped the PC to an individual, we had to pay import duties. “Let me guess,” I said, “once we pay the taxes, we have to wait for the custom inspector to clear the shipment.” “Yes,” they said, “he starts at 4:00. We can deliver the PC in the morning.”

Time, unfortunately, was not on my side, no it wasn’t. I had shuffled trains, planes and schedules. Now I was scheduled on a train, bound for Prague, the next morning. Even then, it was going to be tight. Time was running out.

On a whim, I asked: “Is there any chance we can pick the PC up ourselves?” “Why yes,” said DHL, “not a problem. After customs clears the shipment, you can pick it up at our airport facility after 6:00.

At 6:00, we pulled into the DHL facility — a facility hidden deep in the warehouse maze that surrounds the Budapest airport. Our timing was a thing of beauty. We pulled into the lot just in time to watch a DHL worker roll two Dell boxes off the back end of a truck. They fell, with a note of fragile finality, onto a flat-bed trolley and were wheeled away into the building in front of us. “Those have got to be ours,” I muttered, “got to be.”

Bundles of paper work in hand, we stumbled into the lobby, a lobby furnished in industrial green linoleum, Formica and vinyl, even the lighting had a greenish tinge to it. I shoved the paperwork at the first clerk I could see. He smiled and said, “Yes, the PC is here.” I handed him a fistful of Forints.

As if on cue, at that moment, the double-doors in the rear of the room burst open, and two Dell boxes tumbled into the room. Like a mother who’s found her long lost child, I gathered the boxes into my arms and lovingly tucked them into the car — the monitor into the trunk and, after a little light maneuvering, the PC into the only place it would fit, the front passenger seat. We headed off, full tilt, for Tamás’ new office.

Time being of the essence, I mentally mumbled a check list of tasks that needed to be done. With luck, I figured, I could catch a late dinner. My train left early the next morning for Prague.

By 8:30, we were back at the office. I slide the hard drive into the PC. I had hand-carried it, and a spare, from the States. I checked all the cables. I smiled and plugged it in and…

I could hear the “snap.” I could physically feel the “crack” and “pop” deep in my bones. I could smell the ozone. My face must have turned ashen, as Tamás immediately said “What’s wrong.” I slumped against the wall, defeated. “I forgot,” I said. “Shit. I forgot to switch the power supply from 110 to 220. I just fried it. I give up.”

Tamás looked at me quizzically. “What does that mean,” he asked? “It means we’re screwed,” I said, screwed, screwed, screwed — even in the States, I couldn’t find a new power supply at — glancing at my watch — almost 10:00 at night. Worse than that, it’s a Dell. That means the power supply is proprietary. We’re screwed.” “Humm,” said Tamás. “It’s just a part, right? Let me call my uncle.” He pulled out his mobile phone and, after a few seconds, spoke a few words in Hungarian. He hung up and smiled.

“My uncle says that there is this special number,” he said. “It’s a number you can call and get answers to any question, 24-hours a day.” I looked at him, incredulously, thinking to myself: “Any question? – whew I can think of a few I’d like answered…” But, before I could come up with a question about life, the universe, and everything, he was already off the phone, answer in hand.

“There’s a place,” he said, jotting it down on a pad of paper. “It’s way on the other side of the city. It does all night computer repair. They have the part we need.”

Without further ado, we bundled up the PC and piled into the borrowed car — the Soviet knockoff — and headed off into the Hungarian night. It was thus I found myself, self-employed as a shock-absorber, careening through the dark streets of Budapest, at midnight, in search of a Dell power supply, the day before Thanksgiving. Rabbits were the furthest thing from my mind.

After what seemed like hours, we pulled down a dark street — more warehouse than residential — and stopped in front of what looked like a small square suburban ranch home surrounded by 8-foot tall chain link fence, festooned with video cameras, and dotted with ever popular mercury vapor lights.

The rest of the street faded away into pitch black, stomped out by lights that would shame a football stadium. We parked and stood in front of the sliding chain-link gate. “This is the place,” said Tamás, glancing at the notepad where he had scrawled the address. On cue, the chain link gate silently slide open and we walked into the graveled yard, following the concrete walkway around the side, to the back, as there was no door in the front.

A giant man, six-foot-plus, dressed all in white — white pants and a white T-shirt, with a strange belt of off-white sheep’s fleece and leather wrapped around his substantial midriff — stood at the top of a short flight of stairs. Tamás and he exchanged what I assumed were pleasantries or secret Magyar passwords, and, once complete, Tamás motioned us up the stairs and into the house.

Glancing around, readjusting the PC cradled in my arms, I began to walk up the stairs. It was then I noticed what I thought was a rather odd looking white German Shepherd off to the side of the back yard. I looked again. It wasn’t a dog — despite being at least two or three feet high. It was the ears that had made me think “German Shepherd.” It was a rabbit. It was a three-foot-tall white rabbit. It was looking at me. I glanced around wildly, looking for Alice.

Tamás called, “Gavin, are you coming in?” I stumbled quickly up the stairs, and through the rabbit hole and into the house, glancing with every step at the rabbit. The rabbit watched intently and then turned away as the door closed.

I found myself in a house furnished in gilt, white lace, bad taste, and computer parts. The furniture — where visible under the computer parts — was that particular color of white and peachy gold favored by cheap hotels and porno producers.

After a brief technical exchange in Hungarian and English that consisted mostly of grunts and technical terms like “power supply,” “220 volts,” “Dell,” “Removable hard drive,” and “200 Euros,” the dead power supply lay abandoned on one of the gilt sofas. I was 200 Euros lighter, and we were back in the car, headed through the late night streets of Budapest.

Back at the office, still feeling slightly stunned by the bunny, I slapped the power supply into the PC, check things thrice, and powered it up. All things were right with the world. Tamás had an office.

We packed up shop, and Tamás dropped us at the hotel. Up before dawn, I was on the train and bound for Prague before a bunny’s breakfast. I spent the train trip in the dining car, either dozing or thoroughly entertained by the various notifications from different GSM carriers that appeared on my Blackberry. Arriving in Prague, I once again realized it was Thanksgiving — I had not made it home. As any ex-pat will tell you, Thanksgiving in Europe always lacks a certain je ne sais quoi. Nevertheless, I had three days to finish up in Prague before my rescheduled flight back to Amsterdam, and then on to Detroit. I would be seeing no more bunnies.

Since it was Thanksgiving, the evening called for at least a fancy dinner; if not turkey, then it would have to be duck (an easy call in Eastern Europe). My choice was Obecni Dum (Municipal House). It was just a short walk away. It’s called the “Pearl of Czech Art Nouveau.” It’s a landmark in downtown Prague, and home to a pivnice (beer hall) in the basement as well as a kavarna (café) and the classy Francouzské (French) restaurant on the first floor. You can dine surrounded by deco glass by Alphonse Mucha. The food is good too. I had duck, in lieu of turkey. Rabbit seemed out of the question. I remember the dinner with great fondness, and was to see the exact setting again, later, in “Triple-X” with Vin Diesel; same table in fact — art, once again, imitating life — through the rabbit-hole.

Oh, the bunnies; they’re real, by the way, and not at all a vision born of too many cakes and tortes, too many long days and sleepless nights. You see, this arrived in the email one day, assuring me of my sanity. Thanks Jonathan.

Not only was it heaven, it was the last thing I expected. I was not in a terrific mood; unhappy with the world in general, little [...]]]> It was perfect, the perfect cup of coffee. I’m not even that fond of coffee, but for that moment, it was eight ounces of heaven in a cup.

Not only was it heaven, it was the last thing I expected. I was not in a terrific mood; unhappy with the world in general, little sleep, and having just come off more than 10-hours of various forms of transportation. Worse, some of my best laid plans — half the reason for the trip — had come a cropper; the last thing I wanted to hear was “your room is not yet ready, terribly sorry.”

Then and there, I was convinced that nothing could improve my disposition. I was wrong. Perhaps sensing my despair and not wanting the lobby littered with corpses, the hotel clerk quietly suggested that, just perhaps, I might want a coffee, all the while ushering me, ever so gently, into the dining room. He was smooth. I was in the dining room and seated even before I noticed.

“No, don’t worry about your bags,” he said, motioning the waiter over to the table. “We’ll take them up to your room. Just relax.”

“Café?” said the waiter, sliding up silently. Sighing, “Oui,” I said, in my best imitation of French. I pronounced it more like “weigh” than “wee” — vowels and I don’t get along — my French has a Spanish accent I just can’t shake. As defense, I try to pretend my French is Languedoc. It doesn’t work. I figure I sound like an idiot, something I’ll have to live with.

Then it hit me. The coffee was incredible, perfect — a small pewter pitcher of steamed milk, warm to the touch, and “un petite pichet” of black, strong, rich, almost-chocolate-like coffee. Placing a raw sugar cube in the coffee cup, I poured, first the milk and then, the coffee. The result was warm and rich, the color of milk chocolate, and heaven in a cup. I suddenly remembered what coffee really was.

Coffee and I are well acquainted — this will surprise my friends that have only seen me drink Genmaicha. It’s not that I don’t like coffee. I just don’t like bad coffee. More so, I can’t stand the “fratalian” combinations one is presented with today, too much choice, not enough flavor, and weird names like “fatty-latte-vente-gente-gordo-en-la-bañera.”

To me, coffee comes in six choices. Five are Spanish that I learned as a student in Spain, and I added in the cappuccino to round out the collection. I don’t think the Spanish have a cappuccino equivalent.

• Cappuccino: A shot of Espresso, cut with steamed (hot) milk, and layered with milk foam on top. There are two variations: Cappuccino chiaro (light) and cappuccino scuro (dark). Properly, they’re served for breakfast; gauche I am, I like them after dinner now and then.
• Café con leche (or Café au Lait / Milchkaffee): A mixture of coffee and steamed milk – usually in a 50/50 to 25/75 proportion – served in cup that you’d consider “small.” You drink it for breakfast, along with toast from yesterday’s baguette. You can have the milk either hot or warm.
• Café cortado (or
  Macchiato): Coffee that is “cut” with steamed milk. This is what one orders in bars, from little refreshment stands, sidewalk cafes, and the like. This is an afternoon coffee.
• Café solo (or Espresso): A shot of coffee without milk; served in a tiny cup. Depending on the roast, this is what you think of when you think Espresso.
• Café manchado: Mostly milk, steamed, with just a hint of coffee. It’s made with about ¼ coffee and the rest milk, kind of a reverse cortado. I think this might be the equivalent of a latte. I never drank one.
• Carajillo: Coffee, black, enlivened with cognac or an anis drink such as Ricard. As a student, I found one or two of these greatly improved my command of the Spanish language.

There is another thing called a “Café Americano.” Don’t even think about it. It’s dishwater.

Once I had settled into my Café au Lait, I noticed the dining room. Solarium-like, the ceiling was glass, giving way to a view of overhanging trees; quiet, shaded, green — a relaxing room of wood and glass. Tom Waits was growling on the sound system, with the gravelly sounds of “Invitation to the Blues.” “Now that’s timing,” I muttered to the universe. “She’s a moving violation, from her conk down to her shoes. Well, it’s just an invitation to the blues…” I sung along under my breath: “And you feel just like Cagney, she looks like Rita Hayworth…”

I leaned back, letting Waits fill the spaces. He sings better than I do, and he knows the words. “Tom Waits for breakfast,” I thought to myself, “a wee bit heavy, but I like this place.” I thumbed through the pages on a Herald Tribune, noting that not much had changed overnight; everything was still going to hell. Perfect coffee, perfect setting: Calming, sheltering, private without that dreary anomie that comes with the typical Hyatt-Marriott-cum-Motel-66. In what seemed like a few minutes, the waiter was back. My room was ready, but “no hurry,” he said and smiled. “It will wait. Would you like another café?” I said, “Oui, merci.”

What I had found was one of those rare things, a traveler’s oasis; a hotel to add to my list of hotels where I don’t mind staying. I had decided to switch hotels for a myriad of reasons. The reasons — important then — had ended up irrelevant. The serendipitous result was: I liked the place, and I had another entry for what is a pretty short list of hotels that are just a little special.

Look, I’m not a globetrotter, but I do travel a bit. Yeah, there were a few years where my dog forgot my name, but those days are behind me. Now it’s lots of little trips, and a few big ones a year. And, hotels usually suck. It’s a room, it’s a bed, and it’s a lousy breakfast. Sometimes you get free internet.

I’ve stayed in more than my share of cinderblock cubes — nondescript hotels that could be anywhere from Abu Dhabi to Abilene. Some, like one motel outside of Colby Kansas, are memorable for the wrong reasons. That one was downwind from the nearby feedlot. Rachel, my dog, thought it smelled like Chanel No. 5, but, for me, it was a wee too “Chez Merde.” I’m serious. It was a smell so powerful it kept you awake at night.

This one, well, it had the makings of one to remember — but for the right reasons — including the best cup of café in the world. I officially added the Manos Premier to my list of hotels that don’t totally suck.

I discovered the next morning that not only do they serve a fine cup of coffee, but the coffee accompanies a wonderful buffet breakfast (included in the room rate – gotta love it): a buffet of smoked salmon, tropical fruit, and the quintessential collection of cold meats and cheeses. My lodgings were reasonable, not too fancy; furnished in French provincial, two floors, a sitting area and a loft overhead, reached by a slim staircase along one wall. The loft held the bed, and it looked out the two large windows that opened out into the street. It was quiet and cozy, friendly.

Finally, the bar, Kolya offered comfortable seating where I could stretch out my papers in the evening and plunk on my laptop without a second glance from anyone. A glass of Rhone set me back only €4 and it came with a plate of salted olives. It was Friday night, in a strange city, and I was working into the wee hours again, but at least it was a pleasant place to work, and I was looking forward to the breakfast. I was looking forward to another cup of coffee.

For the curious, my “hotels that don’t suck totally” list includes (in no particular order) the likes of The Grace in Rosebank [Johannesburg, South Africa]. The Grace is quite probably the best hotel in the world, and it definitely has the best breakfast in the world. Others on the list include, The Orca Lodge in Tofino [Vancouver Island, Canada], The Eldridge House [Lawrence, Ks.], Shaw’s Hotel [Prince Edward Island, Canada], Hotel de L’Abbeye [Saint Germain Des Pres, Paris], the Cour des Loges [Lyon, France], the Wingate Hibernian [Dublin, Ireland], the hotel at the Village at Spier [Stellenbosh, South Africa], the Tenaya Lodge at Yosemite [hey, my brother's the Chef, it's a terrific place!], and the Henley Park [Washington, DC].

The reason any particular hotel is on the list varies by the hotel. Some were just incredible places to be and to see, others were redoubts from a wicked world, while others just hold irreplaceable memories. And, then some just serve the best coffee in the world.

Some think that the “French” in French fries actually comes from the verb “frenched” — meaning to cut into thin strips.  Why do I care — well, I like French [...]]]> Despite their “American” name, French fries are not French.  Most people attribute their origin to Belgium.  However, there is a bit of a controversy. 

Some think that the “French” in French fries actually comes from the verb “frenched” — meaning to cut into thin strips.  Why do I care — well, I like French fries, I eat them often, and I like to know about the things I eat. I’m just that way.

Speaking of all things French, I was struck by the fact that changing the name of “French fries” to “freedom fries” seems to imply that France is now the land of the free.

I was in Belgium recently – Brussels to be exact.  When in Brussels one must have French fries — frites in the local lingo.  It’s a national dish. There is even a Belgium website dedicated to all things frites.  It covers frites in the cinema, cartoons, and the like. There’s even a resource guide — a “frites connection” so to speak, that lists sources for those Belgians that are cut off from the mother ship and unable to find a pommes frites fix. The site is aptly named: Www.frites.be.

In Belgium, a meal of frites is not complete without the other half of what [I think] is the Belgium national dish: moules et frites (mussels and fries) or “mosselen met frieten” in Flemish.

It’s heaven in two courses… oops, three if you count the wine too; four if you count the garlic. Five if you count the white lady [more on that later].  In the space of my five days there, I think I had “M&F” at least three times, perchance four.

One culinary adventure was at Belgo Belge  a delightful brasserie just a short walk from my hotel on Rue de Concorde.  It’s one of those places you wouldn’t find unless someone took you there – the restaurant, not the hotel.  As luck would have it, we were led there by friends who live in Brussels.  We followed.  They led.  We enjoyed.

It was a blazing hot day — record setting actually — so we sat outside at the generous sidewalk part of the place, working constantly to adjust the chairs to keep the fair-haired out of the unusually blistering (for Brussels) sun.  We also had fun keeping an eye on a film crew.  Apparently they were filming a movie down the block, and the crew was busily trying to keep the passing pedestrians from stumbling through the scene.

A bit off the subject, but I have a strange habit of eating in places that end up in movies.  My favorite brush with the cine is a scene from “Triple-X” (or xXx) with Vin Diesel. 

I know, it’s a questionable movie, but I like it for the dinner scene in the Prague Municipal House restaurant  – (AKA: Obecní Dům ) — a lovely place for dinner, by the way.  I had (what was for me) a lovely thanksgiving dinner there in 2003.

I was to notice later when watching xXx on DVD, that I was at the same table where, in the movie, Vin and the obligatory beautiful eastern European spy woman were seated.  If you care, it’s just before the scene where he uses a silver serving tray, first, as a shield to escape the hail of bullets from the assassin and, second,  as a surfboard to “surf” down the handrail into the metro. 

Of course the continuity is all wrong – the metro is across the street, not out the door to the right, a serving tray would probably not stop a bullet, etc.  But it’s fun to see life merge with (albeit bad) art.  I like bad movies.  I had the duck, by the way.   No French fries, unfortunately. 

Back to Moules et Frites.

The moules at Belgo Belge come in uncountable varieties.  The wine came in unmarked bottles.  I had my mussels prepared in garlic and white wine. I watched my friend sweat through a portion done with hot spices and curry. 

The fries were crisp and delightful, served in a bowl.  They were what I would call “shoe-string” or “matchstick.  In the French, “pommes allumettes” — cut 3-4mm square.  The other variants, by the way, are “Pommes Pont-Neuf” (10mm square) and “pommes pailles” or straw potatoes (a little thinner than matchstick), and “pommes gaufrette” or waffle potatoes.

A note about wine in unmarked bottles:  Throughout Europe, the “house wine” is not the same as the swill served as house wine in the States.  I can’t remember a time I’ve been unhappy with it.  This day was no exception.  Almost without exception, I drink the house wines.  I’ve never been disappointed. I have been pleasantly surprised.  In Europe: drink the house wines. In the States: never (ever) drink the house wine.

As I mentioned, fries are not without controversy.  Some say the French invented them; some say the Spanish.  Whoever it was, the Belgians have perfected them.  I say this as fact.  I am a self-taught expert on fries, and I’ve studied hard. [Trust me.]

I’ve eaten them around the world; from Guam to Garden City, Anchorage to Alsace, Joplin to Johannesburg, and Brussels to Baltimore.  Brussels takes the cake. 

Let me talk about fries and how they should be.

Proper fries are actually cooked twice.  We rarely get proper fries in the States.  Fact is, I think we’ve been misled by McDonalds (and others of their ilk) for so many years that we actually believe that fries should be limp, pale strings of undifferentiated stuff extruded as thin tubes and dipped in grease. Not so.  Real fries have taste; they’re not just a vehicle for ketchup delivery.

Proper fries are cooked twice: once at 350 degrees, allowed to cool, and then “crisped” at 375 or higher.  Once crisped, they should be salted while still hot. 

Near to home, my favorite fries are served at Monahan’s Seafood (Kerrytown, Ann Arbor). There, they’re finished by tossing them in butter, herbs and salt – ecstasy on a paper plate. 

Proper fries should be golden to golden brown with a crispy outside and a soft inside.  You should be able to taste the potato.   I like them the “modern” way (circa 1940’s), with the skin left on.

There are many places in the world that do them right. Another close to home is Zingerman’s Roadhouse (also in Ann Arbor).  And, they do them right in most of Spain and France.  Strangely, southern Spain seems better at it than northern Spain. One would think the opposite, given the proximity to France.

Most of Canada does them right as well — although I’d skip the Poutine version popular in eastern Canada.  Poutine has many variations, but it’s generally a dish of fries covered with cheese curds, hot (usually brown) gravy, and — of all things — green peas.  Peas!?  I’m brave. I tried them, but…   Fried I like; but fried with cheese and gravy is just too much.  The peas are just plain weird. 

While I’m on the subject, for the most part even the Brits make better fries than most of the US, although one variant — the “chip butty buddy” — is something that also stretches even my tolerance for fried foods.  Imagine: a sandwich made of two pieces of white bread, French fries and mayonnaise.  Finish that off with a deep-fat fried Twinkie, and a Diet Coke, and you’d probably have a winner in the American school lunch program.

Brussels is French fry heaven – a heaven of cobblestones, a polyglot French and Flemish, and the scent of waffles in the air.  Brussels is a city whose mascot is a statue of a boy peeing in a fountain — “le maninquin pis” — by the way.  For special occasions, they dress him up in different clothes.  Slightly strange, if you ask me.  Personally, just between you and me, I find Brussels kind of unfriendly, cold and slightly full of itself – a bit like Washington DC – but (unlike DC) they make good frites. 

Belgian food, however, is ranked among Europe’s finest.  Most of the restaurants serve French cuisine, by the way. Supposedly even the French admit that Brussels has terrific French food.  I LIKE French food, and — as you might be able to ascertain from the words above — I also like French Fries.

Now, for background, traditional Belgian foods also include something they call Gaufres.  Again, you’ve got to love ‘em. (We know them as Belgian Waffles.) They are eaten in the afternoon, by the way.  Not for breakfast.

On the other hand, they also have these traditional, and really yucky, shrimp croquettes — made with their “famous” grey shrimp.  Famous for what, I don’t know.  Maybe I’m touchy, but these things look like they’re made of watery grey mud, breaded and deep fat fried. They taste like sea water and sewage and have the consistency of gritty mud.  It even kind of sticks to your teeth like mud. [Not that I eat that much mud.] When you consider that they are FRIED — and frying improves everything — and they still taste that bad…  Well, yuck is the only word that comes to mind.

Anyway, in my meager roster of restaurants in Brussels, another place for moules et frites is the Auberge des Chapeliers (near as I can figure it means the “hat makers lodge”).  In reality, your choices are innumerable – every village in Belguim will have at least one “friterie” or “fry stand.”  But I like the Auberge.  I’ve been there several times.  The first time was with Mike Litz, a friend from DC who’s now the E.D. of OneWorld USA.  I can’t quite remember why we were there, but Mike, it seems, had grown up in Brussels.  So, we trusted him as he led a rag-tag group of ugly Americans (and me) through the winding streets of a strange city. In the end, our trust was well placed.

The Hat-Maker’s house is in kind of a touristy area – but it’s been there for over 200 years; as a restaurant. I figure that a 200 year-old restaurant must be doing something right. The décor is 16th\ 17th century Germanic – lots of carved wood and BIG furniture.  Their moules et frites are grand.

It’s right off the Grand-Place (big town square) in downtown Brussels, and just around the corner from dozens of amazing chocolatiers.  What’s nice about these chocolatiers is that they give free samples.  One can wander from store to store just sampling chocolate truffles.  It’s easy to hit ten or so before you need to stop and shake off the chocolate buzz.  The Belgians know how to make chocolate.  It should be sold by prescription.

Speaking of chocolate, there is a traditional desert called a “dame blanche” (or “white lady”) that I must mention.

[Even in French it's a bit weird to hear yourself say, "ahh, yeah, for desert, I'll take da white lady...]

You’ll find it — or some variation — on just about every menu.

My favorite variant is very non-politically-correct.  It’s two scoops of vanilla ice cream, each ice cream scoop is topped with a strategically placed raspberry, and some additional – “artfully”- placed whipped cream so as to suggest the shape of a women’s body.  Perhaps “suggest” is not quite the right word.  Suffice it to say, I’d be embarrassed to order it were I out to dinner with my mother.

The lady is supplied with what could be best described as a gravy-boat of melted dark chocolate.  One needs to be careful not to just take to spooning hot dark chocolate straight from the gravy boat in to one’s mouth.  I don’t even LIKE chocolate that much.  Before you know it, you’re likely to hear yourself saying:

“Yeah, I’ll take ‘nother if those, what ya-call-its, ahh, da white lady.”  Wait a minute, isn’t “white lady” slang for heroin? Uh oh.  This stuff is addictive.

Back to the Auberge, it’s a three-storied, yet still tiny, restaurant. Tiny, tiny, tiny. Tiny stairs up and down, with tiny rooms, packed with wooden tables and chairs. I’ve been there with groups of twenty and groups of two.  No problem. 

The mussels you can get multiple ways, with wine, with garlic, with MORE garlic, with wine and garlic, with some vegetables thrown in, with more garlic, vegetables, and wine, and more garlic, and, of course, frites – just about as perfect as can be – not cut too big and yet not “shoestring” either.  Fries fried to a perfect crispy crunch.  Frites, by the way, are seldom – if ever – served with Ketchup.  In Brussels you’re likely to get a choice of mayonnaise or malt vinegar.  I prefer the vinegar.  Besides, the fries are so good you don’t need the ketchup. 

I grew up around food. I can’t remember when I didn’t know how to cook and I was a teenager before [...]]]> People who know me know that I am quite proud of my brother.  Frederick is the Chef at the Tenaya Lodge just outside of the gates of Yosemite National Park in California. 

I grew up around food. I can’t remember when I didn’t know how to cook and I was a teenager before I knew that bread came from anyplace else but from the oven.  My mother cooked and my father cooked.  I guess it’s natural that cooking, and food, are a part of my life and his.  I still cook, and barbeque, and grill, and, well, so it doesn’t go to waste, I eat too.

But, my brother, well. He’s a chef.  He’s a brilliant chef, and I’m not biased either. I’ve seen him do amazing things with food.

Recently — and here’s the shameless promotion — he’s started his own line spice mixes, flavored oils, and honey.  The honey he makes himself. (Actually, I think his bees do the work; they’re busy as, well…, bees.) 

The honey is straight from his "Black Dog Bee Ranch" high in mountains outside of Yosemite.  You can taste the mountain flowers.  Trust me, it’s to die for.  The spice mixes and rubs are amazing and make just about anything taste fancy.

If you’re in the mood for some fancy flavored oils, need some amazing spice in your life, or just something for your honey (like some honey), consider visiting his web site: Broken Plate Productions. Let him know I sent you. (That way, maybe I’ll get more honey for Christmas.)

Gavin Clabaugh – June 2006